


Beautiful Ghosts

by Bidawee



Series: Ode to the Nets [2]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Goalie Love, Goalie Nesting (Hockey RPF), Light Angst, Nesting, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:17:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22657504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Bidawee
Summary: The halfway point between the death of an old relationship and the birth of a new one.
Series: Ode to the Nets [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1630006
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54





	Beautiful Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> this is kind of a drabble. i didn't edit so i could get it out tonight  
HELLO THOUGH im not the only one seeing the similarities between jack and connor brown right? fred's absolute love for this new goalie doesn't come as much of a surprise. treat yourselves to some fine videos (i would embed the links but it's midterm week)
> 
> https://twitter.com/hennytweets/status/1226915479949848577?s=21  
https://twitter.com/kristen_shilton/status/1226939494881988616  
https://twitter.com/kristen_shilton/status/1226929816743575557
> 
> yeah sorry you had to wait 2 years for a nesting sequel. i have effectively disowned the first story because of how horribly bad it is and how much it embarrasses me as an author but for clarity's sake, im making this a series on here for easier navigation. no warnings for this one, enjoy!

At one in the afternoon on a Friday, Jack finds out that Freddie has made his nest in the guest bedroom.

Which is strange, because he’s only ever seen it in the master before.

The nest looks to be in a state of disrepair; the sheets are wrinkled and kicked over one side, drooping to the floor in a lousy fashion that turns the corners inside-out. The blinds are drawn on what’s probably a lovely scene of Toronto. One dresser shelf sits open and is cleared of any belongings. What makes the room uncomfortable is not the sterile, unproductive space it sits in; quite the opposite. He feels like he’s touching hands with a ghost standing in the door.

Pushing him down to the bed gives Freddie no consolation. Even when his knees give way and he’s seated on top of the duvet, the quiet that accompanies the act puts him on edge. Freddie’s shoulders are pushed together and it makes his back muscles bulge out from his shirt. Far from being endearing, it makes him look like a mountain weathered by a storm, balancing precariously on one thin base. The instinctual need to be that support makes him push his chin into the jut of Freddie’s collarbone, trying to colour the message that he’s here for him.

Freddie responds with a low rumble that makes his ribs feel as though they’re vibrating. Jack brings his knees up to his chest for balance as Freddie takes his place on top of him. The tiny slot of space in between them is the only air he draws in. Even the lift of his chest feels like it’s too much. He’s heard the rumours from California about how Gibson keeps his backups in line, things that he’s sure have become habits that won’t die young.

But, to his surprise, Freddie is a lot more complacent than he expected. He curls his body around Jack, maybe pausing every five or so minutes to run an open-palmed hand down his torso to make sure everything is in its place. When Jack had tried to help him by removing his pull-over sweater, he heard the first growl. The bad reinforcement only confused him further. He has yet to meet a starter that doesn’t chirp at the touch of skin. 

Instead of risking his position, he opts to stay quiet and hold himself back. The last thing he needs to do is to follow the instruction manual of another goalie. Sight-reading and rumours aren’t exactly accurate descriptors of how one nests, even if Freddie seemed so open the night before when he ordered--and paid--for Jack’s meal.

The only time he’s left to his own devices is when Freddie cooks him dinner. The door is left ajar so that Freddie can run in if his suspicions get the best of him or there’s some emergency that would require him to storm in and lift his partner over one shoulder (Jack shivers at the thought, knowing Freddie’s injury). Despite being alone, there’s someone else there. He sees them on the wisps of stray light that wobble up and down as bellows on an accordion; he smells them on the sheets. It’s a crude method of preservation that guts his insides with a spoon.

He’s fed a light soup, then cleaned and ready for bed. Freddie keeps his touches light, never lingering for a second more than he has to. Jack wishes he knew that he would be nesting with him; he would’ve shaved. However, those conforming gestures don’t seem to resonate with Freddie. Though mute, even his body language is faint. It leaves no impression when it should, for someone of his size.

Jack finds the bravery in him to ask, “do you have a nesting partner?” 

Customary welcomes to the team aside, it feels like he’s in someone else’s place. Freddie blows hot air out of his nostrils and does not answer.

“Mitch was volunteering for me. He seems nice, though his energy might be a lot to deal with. I thought he was yours--that’s why I said no. Not because of the energy thing.”

He waits for a second, waiting for the touch to confirm or deny his suspicions. Nothing of the sort happens.

He bites the inside of his cheek. “Jon--Quick told me you probably nest more here because of the ‘theatrics’ as he called it. I wanted to be prepared. I thought you would know who on the team I should be with.” _I didn’t want to bring it up at dinner,_ goes unsaid. That insubstantial evening feels more like an optical illusion with every passing second.

Freddie moves, but not to answer him. He turns Jack around and slips an arm under his armpit to maneuver him with. He feels, but does not see Freddie kick his legs apart. He’s too busy checking the configuration of their upper bodies; where he ends and Freddie begins. 

He dozes in the heat of that embrace, feeling the hair on his nape sway with Freddie’s breathing. Toronto may be nothing but car horns and tire screeches during rush hour but up in their perch they hear nothing but the ventilation system.

Jack could get used to this. This quiet but whole nesting experience. It’s good to know, for when he brings Freddie groceries and couriers messages. If only he could know the name of his partner. They may have only been a starter and backup pair for a week and a half, and may only be work associates for a season or less, but he likes to believe there’s an element of trust there. It makes Freddie’s withdrawal a lot less tangible to conceive. He doesn’t feel owed; it’s acceptance. He’s earned it, so why?

Hutch comes by to check on them the next day. Jack can see the disappointment corroding his face. It won’t get easier, occupying the space he used to. He doesn’t like to think he pushed Hutch out of the second spot, but that’s how the media likes to portray it. For Freddie’s sake, he doesn’t get close. He passes messages on with the slide of his eyes. Whether or not Hutch understands him, he won’t know until the end of this particular nesting period.

He finds a moment, when Freddie is changing the bedding, to get a word in.

“Is it normal for him to be...like this?”

“Like this?” he parrots.

“Like, his heart's not in it. I don’t know if I’m doing anything for him by being here. Should we bring in his actual partner?”

“He doesn’t have a partner; he hasn’t since the start of the season.”

Jack’s shoulders drop. “Oh. Okay. So that means you’ve been picking up the slack?”

“He doesn’t really do much with me. He has his thing, I’m just along for the ride. If you keep your head down it passes quick, then you’ll be back out on the ice in no time.”

“Thanks, man.” They avoid physical contact for his own sake; Hutch managed to tell him over the phone that Freddie once had a tendency for biting.

In no time whatsoever, Freddie is back and shepherding him into the room. He lowers himself to the bed without a fuss, keeping his body loose and easy to move. Freddie doesn’t take charge aside from knocking his hands away to make more room for himself. Jack can feel the phantom sensation of those hands on his back. It’s somehow more disconcerting that Freddie is keeping them to himself.

Something about the whole situation feels so raw; in places that Jack once felt comfort there’s now a void. In this sticky, summery room, he’s more alert than ever. How is it possible that he's so close to someone and yet, there's no emotional weight behind him to lean back on? It's jarring, to look over his shoulder and see a nesting goalie's eyes closed. If he didn't know any better, he would think Freddie didn't want him here. Why try to block out his face, when he asked Jack to come, when he laughed along with him and found a reason to shadow him during practice?

He quickly bores of the procedural quiet that blankets them and fidgets, as one does. Freddie only growls when it gets particularly bad--itches he can’t scratch but tries to--and is otherwise dormant. Jack tests the limits, but only finds them as fuzzy and undefined as the boundaries that Freddie placed down at his feet on his first day in Toronto.

Feeling something more insidious at play, he taps into that rebellious side of him and keeps moving, scooting away and knowing that Freddie will see issue and try to correct him. He might be masochistic, but it satisfies that urge to see the nesting partner take the lead. It’s what he’s used to, and it could just be what he wants to be.

On his fourth try, Freddie’s image begins to curdle. At the test of authority, he teethes at the skin of Jack’s shoulder. Not enough to draw blood, nor unexpected, but it’s where he’s sensitive.

Jack makes a loud gasp, and Frederik backs away. as if shocked by the savagery of the act. Jack turns just in time to see him cover his mouth with one hand.

Jack pushes himself up on Fred, carving out a space for himself. If Freddie was verbal, he might try to talk about it. As it is, to initiate a conversation would be cruel. He knows how it is-the caught feeling in your throat like you’re choking on food--and the torture that comes with losing your voice.

Freddie grabs onto him and pushes him closer, reciprocating for his vocal cords by taking away Jack’s breath. He’s smothered close, hearing sounds in his left ear that make his toes curl. In an ensemble, they resemble a purr, but sound more like mourning when he thinks about it. He lets himself be held like a child’s favourite stuffed animal, and rides it out.

The period ebbs and pulses, sometimes overcome with resentment that makes Freddie’s fingers sink in and grab skin. At other times, it’s sad. As much as Freddie can say without words comes out in how he holds Jack. He’s a stranger, but in that one afternoon, he becomes something precious. And who better to understand a starter than his backup?

At least, it’s better than the passive role Hutch had to take. Not that Jack blames him. They’ve been in Toronto for so long that it’s probably commonplace to see this level of detachment. Hard to care for someone else when you have your own problems.

Unfortunately for him, it’s not his place to ask who’s shoes he has to fill. He would only ever be a pale imitation. When he touches Freddie’s cheek and angles his head toward him, he’s not trying to mimic the touch of whoever was here before him. Their foreheads touch.

Freddie watches him. He watches and watches, eyes peeling back the layers. Finally, he takes both of Jack’s hands in his own. He places a gentle kiss on the knuckles of his left hand, then his right.

Nothing else happens, except that the red ghost in the room slowly begins to fade away. It gently touches Jack’s shoulder, nothing but charred gibberish, and is not gone by tomorrow, but a lot harder to see.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on my [tumblr](https://cursivecherrypicking.tumblr.com/). i post stories and prompts in my 'prompts' tag that don't make it onto ao3!


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